


Life Doesn't Discriminate

by BookSlut1994



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 2007 Financial Crisis AU, Aaron Burr is Sara Crewe, Alex Has a Shit Childhood, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eliza is a cinnamon roll, Except he's not a total sap, How Not to Parent Your Gay Son- A Guide by Sen. Henry Laurens, John is in the closet, Law School AU, Multi, Parental George Washington, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Theodosia is a Cool TA, Thomas is an asshole, William Paterson is actually Satan, but we love him anyway, race/class issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookSlut1994/pseuds/BookSlut1994
Summary: “Whatever comes,” she said,“Cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it.”- A Little Princess, Frances Hodgson BurnettIn what can best be described as the bastard child of Good Will Hunting and A Little Princess, 19 year old law student Aaron Burr's family is killed in a freak accident on the eve of the recession, leaving him orphaned and penniless. Forced to work to keep his spot at Harvard, he soon learns who his real friends are. When Alexander Hamilton, a young janitor solves a difficult legal case, Professor Washington takes him under his wing, but Alex's rough past soon comes back to haunt him. Can the two young men save each other and themselves?(You get nothing if you wait for it)





	1. Aaron Burr, Sir (I'm so good at titles)

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: In real history, Burr’s parents died when he was 2, for the sake of the story, they’re dying when he’s in law school. Yes, I’m sending them to Harvard, yes, I realize that that’s inaccurate. Mainly, it’s due to the fact that I actually have some firsthand knowledge of Boston/the Boston metropolitan area and will thus be able to write it less shittily than another city. Basically this whole operation is deeply AU and that’s how it’s going to have to be. If there are any atrocious lapses in spelling, grammar, etc, I was delirious with sleep deprivation when I posted this. Ooops.  
> SIDE NOTE: If You want a really good (but not boring) overview of the mortgage crisis, go watch/read The Big Short. It’s informative, but also Really Fucking Good. It will make you learn things about why our economy went to shit in ’07 and also make you pretty pissed off at some investment bankers.

**_September 2007- The brink of the subprime mortgage crisis._ **

              

Aaron Burr’s new townhome is gorgeous, palatial, and utterly ridiculous for a person who lives alone and isn’t even old enough to drink, but, as his brother-in-in law said, it’s in a very good part of Boston, and one can’t pay enough for safety. As the nineteen-year-old clutches the key and watches his parents’ grey BMW speed into the distance, their goodbyes echo in his head.

_“We’re so proud of you, Aaron.” His mother’s smile could light up the East coast._

_His father, more reserved, but happier than he’s ever seen him, “Call us when you’re done with your first classes.”_

_“- No, call us before!”_

_“We love you, Aaron.”_

_We lovelovelovelove love. You._

_The teenager wrinkles his nose as his parents pull him into a tight embrace, and if their goal is to suffocate him with cashmere and Scottish wool, they’re doing a fantastic job of it._

_“Mom,” he protests, “I’m not five.”_

_“No,” his father interjects, and Aaron can hear the smile in his voice, “but you’ll always be our baby.”_

_When they leave, the smell of Chanel No. 5 lingers in the air._

_“Call us!”_

_“I will.”_

               ‘You’ll always be our baby.’ The statement is simultaneously reassuring and panic-inducing, because Aaron Burr Jr. doesn’t want to be his parents’ baby; he doesn’t want to be ‘Little Burr,’ the atrocious nickname he’d been stuck with at Princeton due in equal parts to his height and the reality that he was, in fact, very young in comparison to the rest of the undergraduate population. Aaron wants, no, _needs_ to prove that he’s worthy of all the praise that’s been heaped on him since he was a child.

               The Burr heir runs his thumb over the rough edge of the fresh-cut key. He’s the _one thing_ in his life he can control. As he stares up at the stately brick building that will be his home for the next three years, he can practically see the pieces of his life fall into place; he’ll get his law degree, then become a senator. He’ll make his parents proud, talk less, smile more; let his actions prove what words can’t- that maybe Aaron is worthy of everything he’s been given. The thought is exhilarating, and the nineteen-year-old doesn’t have to see his reflection in the massive bay window to know that he’s grinning like an idiot.

                 He’s about to head up the steps, when he collides head-first with a very small, very disheveled person, sending them sprawling in a heap of tangled limbs and wavy brown hair, and books that probably weigh as much as some small children. Aaron’s about to offer an apology when he’s cut off.

               “Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, Sir?” The kid- he _must_ be a kid, because he’s shorter than Aaron, and skinny as an orphan in a Dickens novel, spits the words out in a hopeful, excited blur, “areyouAaronBurSir,” morphing into one, impossibly tangled, manic breath.  

               Six syllables- that’s all it takes for Aaron’s elation to flicker and die, his wild grin flattening into something smaller, still cordial, but closed off. He takes a step back, sticks his hands in his pockets, wary.

“That depends, who’s asking?” He’s no longer Aaron, but Aaron Burr, _Sir-_ with all the privileges and expectations that that entails. The nineteen-year-old takes a steadying breath, checks his smile in the mirror; polite, calm, competent, he can do this; he can be Aaron Burr, Sir- even if he can’t he has to.

“Oh- sure!” The kid is still grinning, ridiculously happy for someone who’s just been knocked on his ass. He gets up, brushes the dirt from his ripped jeans, and Aaron should really help him. His parents taught him better than this, _always be friendly to everyone, Aaron. Not everybody is as lucky as you_ ; _that doesn’t mean that they can’t be an invaluable friend and ally._ Aaron should be better than this, but he’s frozen.  Face burning, he shakes himself out of his stupor. He’s about to apologize for his deplorable conduct when he’s interrupted by the same mile-a-minute voice.

“Alexander Hamilton, at your service!”  He extends one hand with a flourish, shoving back that insane curtain of hair with the other. “But you can call me Alex. Mostly everyone does.”

               “Alex,” Aaron repeats, committing the name to memory. _People like it when you remember their names. It lets them know that they matter to you._ He glances at the scattered books, noticing for the first time, the titles- _Constitutional Law in the Twenty-First Century_ , _A Complete Guide to Federal Business Regulation_ , _An Introduction to Litigation_. “You’re a law student, then?” He’d had Alex pegged as an undergrad- a freshman or sophomore maybe, but his choice of literature looks like part of the reading list for an L1.

“Oh, no.”  The short brunet frowns for the first time, scrambling to collect his fallen belongings. “Nothing like that.”

Aaron smiles, picks a book off the sidewalk. “Well good for you. Our country could use more high-schoolers with your ambition.” He feels for this kid, Aaron had been a shy, precocious, oddly serious child, alternately treated as a curiosity, or an annoyance. He’d learned quickly that adults weren’t often fond of teens who were smarter than they were. He runs a finger along the spine of _An Introduction to Litigation_ , brushing off the dirt. “Let me offer you some free advice. Talk less-”

 _“What?”_ Alex drops the book he’s holding; glares like he wants to set the world ablaze.

“-smile more,” Aaron finishes; shrugs. It’s true. If there’s one thing he’s learned at Princeton, it was when to stay silent. It was so much easier to get ahead when he wasn’t making enemies.            

“I’m twenty,” the other man interjects, his voice straddling the thin line between a snarl and a whine. _“Twenty.”_ He snatches the book that Aaron was holding rubbing at the cover with the hem of his tee shirt, as if he can erase any trace of the law student’s touch.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron mutters, bends down and picks another book off the ground, hissing in frustration as his driver’s license slips from his pocket and clatters on the pavement.

“I’m _not_ short.” Alex glares at Aaron from above, daring the other man to challenge him.

“Of course not,” Aaron can’t help the smirk that slides across his face, can’t help it at all.

“I’m not,” Alex mumbles through clenched teeth as he uses them to pry a hair tie from his wrist, deftly twisting his hair into an impressively messy bun. He cocks his head to the side, scuffs his holey converse against the granite curb, and Aaron begins to wonder if this kid ever stops moving. “Hey, is that your id?”

“Oh, yeah.” Aaron stares helplessly as the small brunet picks the card off the pavement, turns it over in his hand. Aaron couldn’t move if he wanted to; his arms are full of textbook.

“Trade?” Alex dangles the id in Aaron’s face, eyes fixed on the stack of books.

“Please.”  

Aaron feels better when his id is back inside his pocket, his famous last name safe from prying eyes, feels better when he can pretend that he’s a person and not the Burr heir, pretend that he’s in a life where he could be sure that all the praise he’s received is based on his own merits and not the generous donations his family has made to every organization he’s ever participated in.

“You _are_ him.” Alex’s eyes are the size of planets, his lips curve into a small, pleased smile.

Aaron shoves his hands in his pockets, stares at the ground, the elaborate brickwork that circles his building’s entry, the verdant canopy that shades the quiet street, anywhere but the other young man. When he speaks, it is a small, choked thing. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Knew it.” Hamilton shrugs like meeting the progeny of billionaires is an everyday occurrence for him, his thin arms wrapped around what might be a stack of books, if books could be stacked by a hurricane.

Aaron lets out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “I am truly sorry…” he begins, but he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for; lying, mistaking Alex for a teenager, barreling over the other young man like he didn’t even exist? These things are all small, easy to brush off. He knows what his friends (can he call them friends) at Princeton would say.   _What’s the big deal, Burr? Kid can’t take a joke? You’ll probably never see him again anyway._ People like Patterson didn’t care about how they treated people like Alex, because to them people like him didn’t matter. Aaron’s life would probably be easier if he didn’t care so much, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He should have taken his own advice- _talk less._

Aaron should walk away, should leave now while he still has some semblance of dignity. Instead he smiles, turns to the other young man. “Can I buy you a drink?” It’s his olive branch, his chance to make amends, to prove he’s not some trust-fund brat who treats people like dirt because he can. He isn’t like Patterson and his cronies at Princeton, he won’t let himself be.

               The short brunet’s eyes are wide, full of something Aaron can’t quite decipher. “That would be nice.”

 


	2. Chapter Two: The Story of Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hamilsquad appears. Alex has never had a group of friends before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, allusions to John and Aaron’s Tragic Backstories, attempts to discuss class issues by someone who is admittedly really fucking privileged, behavior that should medically be classified as alcohol abuse, but would pass as normal on most college campuses  
> Notes: Sam Adams is a hipster (or the 2007 equivalent) bartender, the hamilsquad appears. They are all fucking adorable; send help. I have no idea what Sam’s personality was actually like, so I am making it up to suit the needs of this story. This was supposed to be a fluffy chapter and but then my seemingly endless ability to descend into absurd melodrama happened. Pray for these babies. #hugs4alex #hugs4aaron #hugs4john. I’m just gonna go ahead and bump up the rating now, because at this point I’d have to be delusional to assume it won’t move up to M. I’ll add tags as stuff comes up and put warnings by chapter, so if you care about not being triggered, please, please READ THEM. I don’t want to upset anyone, but if you don’t pay attention to available information, I won’t have much sympathy for you if you complain.   
>  Side Note: If anyone has a complaint/suggestion/comment/wants to get out feels about anything in this fic, please, please DO comment/PM whenever you want. I LOVE feedback. I will reply to anyone and I promise I’m super, super nice, and while I’d prefer not to get comments like ‘I can’t believe you put x in this fic, that’s totally immoral and makes God/me/my mom/that guy I sometimes listen to on the news sad’, if you don’t like the way something is portrayed, i.e. You think it was way too callous/dramatic/I didn’t show enough respect to a serious topic, I’m happy to discuss, even if I won’t necessarily make a change.   
> Sorry for the rant (now you know how I operate). Anyway, if you read this long-ass author’s note, you’re the real MVP.  
>  Love you all. You’re the best!  
> <3 <3 BookSlut1994  
> History Note: Sam was John’s 2nd Cousin (the cool one, I assume)

“I’m older than you, you know…” Alex muses, mostly to himself as he trails behind Aaron, jogging intermittently in an attempt to keep up. The idea fills him with equal parts smugness and terror. On the one hand, no matter what happens, he’ll always have this one thing that Aaron doesn’t; on the other, that year is time he’ll never get back. The twenty-year-old’s breath catches in his throat. Burr is a year younger than him and he’s in law school; Alex is a janitor. _Slash dancer, slash construction worker slash blogger_ , his mind supplies, as if that makes it any better- it doesn’t. Alex is running out of time, can practically feel it slipping through his fingers, and there’s a million things he hasn’t done. Honestly, between his day job, his night job, and his weekend job, it’s a miracle that Alex ran into Aaron Burr at all.

“Congratulations.” The Burr heir calls from up ahead. The younger man isn’t a fast walker per se, but his strides are impossibly long, like he knows exactly where he’s supposed to be, the green-gold foliage and orange cashmere of his sweater complementing his dark skin perfectly. Surrounded by falling leaves and red brick buildings, the law student looks like something out of a Brooks Brother’s ad. He looks like someone who belongs; and Alex?  Alex has never felt so out of place in his life. The brunet catches his reflection in a shop window and does a double-take. It’s not that he doesn’t know he’s poor- he does, can’t get away from it no matter how hard he tries. It’s just that being around people like Burr makes the gap between where Alex is and where he wants to be seem so much wider; the prince and the pauper. He grits his teeth and jogs to catch up.

They’re about two blocks away from Harvard square when Alex drops his books for the fourth time, fingers scrambling for purchase as _Constitutional Law in the Twenty-First Century_ nearly tumbles to the ground.

“That’s it,” Burr turns around. He’s frowning like a disappointed parent, and Alex is certain that this is the part where Aaron Burr, boy genius, and heir to a multimillion dollar corporation will decide that he doesn’t need to be friends with a shitshow like him. Aaron reaches out and Alex flinches, hard, back slamming into the crumbling brickwork of a cute, indie bookstore- muscle memory. The realization that he’s safe is almost immediate, but the reaction is bone-deep, visceral. Alex cannot _not_ flinch at the sight of a raised hand, not since his mother died, since the first family (or was it the fourth?); by the time Alex turned eighteen he’d been kicked out of too many foster homes to count. Alex frowns, dispelling the thought and detaches himself from the wall, cheeks burning with humiliation.

_I’m fine,_ he tells himself. _Fine._ He clenches his fists, forces himself to look the other man in the eye, and he is not ripped jeans and tattered nerves, and burned fingertips from crawling his way out of hell; he is _strong._

“Here.” Aaron’s expression is pleasantly neutral as he hands the other man his book, but his eyes flicker with something akin to recognition. His fingers, when they brush Alex’s are electric. And Alex? He burns.

_Impossible._ Alex dismisses the thought, shoving the text back onto the haphazard pile with as much force as possible. As if Aaron Fucking Burr, heir to a multibillion dollar fortune and youngest person to graduate Princeton in a century could possibly understand what Alex’s life has been like. _Ha fucking ha._ Because Alex’s past is a dull ache beneath his skin, because he can’t trust himself not to say something inflammatory, or humiliate himself, or just fucking cry, the brunet decides to temporarily employ his new acquaintance’s advice and _talk less._ He anchors the precarious stack with his chin and forces himself onward. He’s been through worse. Alex is halfway down the block when he realizes that Aaron hasn’t moved at all.

The other man is smiling pleasantly, hands tucked into the pockets of his chinos like Alex hasn’t just had a complete nervous breakdown. “What I was going to say, is that we need to get you a backpack.”

Alex bristles, his response immediate, instinctive. “I have one.” It’s a stupid thing to say- an obvious lie. If Alex had one, he wouldn’t be carrying his books around like this. He amends his statement. “I don’t need your charity.”

“Oh for the love of God…” Aaron’s smile falls off his face. His dark eyes are stony, unreadable, and for a second, Alex worries that he might have hit a nerve. He just can’t figure out what. Alex should stop. He should stop because Aaron’s looking at him like he just hit his puppy with a shovel; because he _needs_ a backpack and he _can’t_ afford one. Alex _can’t stop_ \- never knew how. He’s a hurricane with skin on, and the next words that leave his mouth are vicious.

“You can’t _buy me_ ,” he snaps; and _stop, STOP. Alex, you need to stop._ The words tumble out of Alex’s mouth like a runaway train. It’s a mess. He’s a mess. “You think that just because I’m some bastard, orphan, immigrant, whore’s son that you can just throw your money around and I’ll be yours.” Alex’s voice is ragged. His hands are shaking, and oh look, he’s started to cry. He’s always been an angry crier. “…’Cause I won’t. You can’t buy me. You can’t have me. You _can’t._ ”

“I’m not.” Aaron’s face is a mask of scandalized horror, hands limp at his sides. “I wouldn’t do that.” Any other time, Alex would have applauded himself for getting the stoic man to show some emotion, but right now he’s shaking with rage, humiliated tears burning white-hot trails down his cheeks and splashing on the covers of his books. It’s a lie; it has to be a lie, because nothing is free. Alex knows now; if there’s anything he learned from LytellStevensReynolds (Reynolds)…

“I’m sorry.”

Alex blinks. Aaron’s voice is soft, his smile small and polite (what does the Burr heir do that isn’t polite?), and absolutely fake. There’s something shattered behind the other man’s eye, that strange understanding that Alex is scared to name.

_“I’m_ sorry.” Alex swipes viciously at his face with the hem of his tee-shirt; sends his books clattering back to the ground. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care at all. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, I’m sorryI’msorryi’msorry.”  He’s not even sure what he’s apologizing for, just spits the words out fast and frantic, like that will absolve him of whatever crime he’s not sure he’s committed, but _feels_ anyway. Alex feels filthy; _is_ filthy.

“Shh...” Aaron’s standing a respectful distance away, eyes boring into Alex like he can ground him to the Earth by his gaze alone. “Talk less.”

Alex closes his mouth, shudders through the act of breathing. His lungs are frayed; his heart is a fallout zone; he’s a watercolor painting and his colors are spilling off the edge of the canvas.

Aaron speaks slowly, each word a grounding wire, drawing the storm that is Alexander Hamilton back to Earth. “I’m not trying to buy you, or your friendship. Consider this a selfish act.”

“Oh.” Alex stills, lets the words wash over him. He bites his lip, working the idea over in his mind. “I don’t want to take your money.”

“It’s Daddy’s money.” Aaron’s smile is acid.  “Besides, if I get it now, we won’t have to keep stopping every five seconds. It’s annoying.”

“It’s not every _five seconds_ ,” Alex whines, “and I’m paying you back.”

               Fifteen minutes later, they’re walking out of LL Bean with a backpack that’s cheap, but practically guaranteed to last forever.

               “I am paying you back,” Alex insists.

               Aaron rolls his eyes, but his small smile and the relieved set of his shoulders, Alex can tell that the law student isn’t truly annoyed. “Fine.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “But we’re getting that drink and _I’m_ paying.”

               Alex opens his mouth.

               “No. No arguments.” Aaron sighs. “C’mon, I know a place. Sam’s never cards.”

***

               The Liberty bar is a doorway in the alley behind a crumbling brick building a few blocks from Harvard Square that _might’ve_ been nice in 1776, but now looks like it ought to have been condemned a few centuries ago.

               “Slumming it are we, rich-boy?” Alex grins widely, surveying the broken beer bottles and peeling band posters that line the alleyway. It’s not the kind of place he’d expect the Burr heir to frequent, then again, nothing about the other man has been predictable.

                “I…um…” Aaron blushes, deep carmine- _adorable_ , and Alex is determined to make him do it again.

               Alex leans against the doorframe. “Do you always take your girlfriends places this nice, or am I just special?”

               Aaron frowns and it’s over; _why, oh why_ couldn’t Alex control his mouth just this once? The brunet steels himself, waiting for the other man’s disgusted response, for the ridicule that he’s surely earned, but the law student just rolls his eyes, as he steps across the threshold. “Talk less.”

               Alex breathes a sigh of relief and makes to follow him, when Burr is halted at the door.

               “ID?”

               “I’m sorry?” Aaron blinks, a bland smile sliding across his face. He doesn’t sound sorry. His voice is the condescending mix of polite and irritated that Alex can only assume is a key part of the curriculum in New England prep schools costing over 20,000 a year.

               “I thought you said they didn’t card,” he whispers.

               “They do card.” The bouncer is a guy of medium height with a sideways smirk, a lip ring, and a shock of electric-blue hair. He holds out his hand expectantly, and his sleeve rides up revealing the edges of a tribal tattoo.

               The Burr heir heaves a sigh, thumbs through his wallet, and hands the bouncer what looks like a flawless New York driver’s license.

The bouncer just laughs, tosses it aside and draws an X on each of Aaron’s hands with a fat, black marker. “No dice. You’re nineteen. I’ve seen the _Times_ article. Being a boy-genius does have its downsides, little Burr.”

Something flashes in Aaron’s eyes, sparks and vanishes so quickly Alex almost misses it, but the expression that remains is so terribly hollow he’s sure he hasn’t. “I prefer Aaron,” he grits out, his polite smile more like a grimace.

The bouncer nods, sucking on his lip ring. “Aaron, then.” He waves the Burr heir in, and the other man stalks across the threshold.

 “I’m going to _kill_ Lafayette.”

Alex holds out his hands- he can’t afford a fake ID and he looks fifteen, but the bouncer simply waves him in.

“Buy your friend a drink. He can stay ‘till the kitchen closes.”

Alex nods and follows the bouncer in.  The inside of the Liberty bar, like its exterior, is unapologetically dive-y, walls covered in layers of posters so thick they might as well be papier-mache, cracked faux-leather booths and long, dark bar gleaming in the low light. The brunet scans the room, breathing a sigh of relief when he spots Aaron, sitting in a corner booth with a noticeable lack of mysterious stains on the seats. He’s flanked by two other men, and when Alex crosses the room, the one on the left jumps out of his seat.

“Showtime! Showtime!” His smile is infectious, and Alex already feels a bit more at ease. He slides into the booth and the other man follows, giving a shout for another pint.

A second later, the bouncer emerges scowling from behind the bar. He raises an eyebrow. “What happened to the other two?”

 “’M working on three. Please, Sammyyyyyyy.” Aaron’s friend gives the…bartender? a plaintive look and Alex doesn’t think he’s imagining the slur in his words.

Aaron groans and hides his face in his hands, but the bouncer-bartender ignores the law student, glancing at the booth’s other occupant, an impeccably dressed young man who mouths something that looks like ‘Martha’.

The blue-haired man blinks, his surly mask giving way to something more like concern, before he turns to the first speaker, and sneers. “You’re a little shit, Laurens, but I’ll make it two, if you never call me that again.”

The young man nods, gratefully, and the bartender- _never call me Sammy_ , leans on the table and asks what else they’d like (in much less polite terms, but people don’t come the Liberty for the Service. They come because Sam Adams doesn’t card and doesn’t judge).

Aaron’s other friend leans across the table, toothpaste-commercial smile dazzling against his dark skin. He’s pretty enough to be a model. “Une bière s'il vous plait.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Your charm doesn’t work on me, Lafayette Lemme guess- you want some more of that French shit?”

Aaron’s pretty friend- Lafayette lets out a dramatic gasp and when he speaks, his French accent comes out thick. “Stella is _not_ shit!”

“Please….” The bartender gives the Frenchman a withering look, before turning to Alex, “And for you?”

The brunet opens and closes his mouth, searching for a response, when Aaron slides a ten across the table, his expression leaving no room for argument.

“We’ll have two pints of the house brew- whatever variation you recommend.” He gives the blue-haired bartender a smile that can only be described as presidential.

“My new favorite customer,” Sam Adams sniffs, giving Laurens and Lafayette a meaningful glance before stalking back to the bar.

***

By the time Sam returns with their drinks, slamming them down and leaving in a huff, Alex feels more at ease with Aaron’s friends than he’s felt with anyone in... _oh,_ his whole life.

He learns that Aaron met John and Gil- _Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, but you can call me Gil or Lafayette_ \- at orientation for Washington’s litigation class.

“Washington? Like, _Washington, ‘The General’_ Washington?” Alex is practically bouncing out of his seat.

“The same.” Aaron replies. To hear him tell it, one would assume that John and Gil had practically forced him to be their friend, but he’s stopped staring at the table, lost the tension that made Alex wonder if the law student wasn’t going to bolt. He’s not smiling, but he’s more relaxed than the brunet has ever seen him, and Alex thinks that this might be Aaron for happiness.

Over the next few minutes, he learns that Gil is, as John puts it, “Filthy fucking rich,” or as Aaron more politely puts it, “His family makes Bill Gates look poor.” He’s studying international law so that he can run his parents’ medical corporation. John’s at Harvard, because his father, _South Carolina_ Senator _Henry Laurens,_ thinks it will enhance his chances for public office later.

“Daddy-dearest is laboring under the delusion that we’ll be the next fucking Kennedys,” John looks up from the bar napkin where he’s doodling a sea turtle in impressive detail. He spits the pronouncement out with enough venom that Alex decides to drop the subject, the other man’s breathing a sigh of relief when he does, Alex’s cue that he’s done the right thing.

“I’ve never had a group of friends before…” Alex admits, sipping at the foam of Adam’s special craft brew, feeling the scarlet creep over his face as he does. It’s true. He spent his youth being shunted from home to home- if they could be dignified with the term. It was his mouth, his filthy fucking mouth that always got him in trouble; no one wanted to deal with uppity immigrant trash, and so Alex was labeled a Problem Child, and when Reynolds told him that he was _“so much prettier when you’re not talking…”_ was it any wonder that child services had ignored his calls? He left the day he turned eighteen.

_“Oh, mon petit lion…”_ Lafayette looks ready to cry.

John looks up from his drawing, his expression fierce. “You can be our friend.”

Alex laughs at that, watery and choked, but real. “John Laurens, I like you a lot.”

Even Aaron smiles at that, raising a glass. “To the four of us.”


	3. Only the Memories of When You Were Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is pitiful. James is merciful. Martha Wayles-Jefferson is a vengeful ghost and she really needs to keep her pretty hands away from things that no longer belong to her.  
> (You could write your own deliverance if you tried)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Slight rewind on the timeline with this chapter, but we catch up by the end. In case no one noticed, this fic deviates SIGNIFICANTLY from history. IRL, Martha Jefferson died when she was 34 and Thomas was 39 and they had 2 surviving children. For the sake of this fic’s plot and keeping characters closer in age , I’m pretending that it happened when he was 24 and she was 22 (so I adjusted the difference in their ages too) and that they had no kids at the time. His characterization in this fic is based (loosely) on Mary Lennox from The Secret Garden, the human embodiment of the concept that unpleasant people are unhappy people, as well as his portrayal in the musical. Historically, he was super-devastated by Martha’s death and was a complete mess for several months following. I think his grief is compounded a bit in my version, since Thomas is a lot younger at the time of Martha’s death and they don’t have any kids. In a way he’s mourning not just his wife, but the life they could have had. He’s a mess. Historically, Jefferson also never remarried as she made him promise not to let another woman be mother to their children. In history, Jefferson found himself in possession of a large fortune (primarily land and slaves) at a young age, as his father died when he was 14 and his father-in-law, John Wayles died early in his marriage (leaving him an enormous fortune, but also enormous debt). Because slavery isn’t legal in 2007 in the US, we’re just gonna pretend that Jefferson is rich because he owns a shit-ton of factory farms that exploit immigrant workers, mmkay…. (because that’s the closest modern source of wealth I can think of to being a plantation owner)? Jefferson’s behavior surrounding slavery was really weird and problematic as a result. On the one hand, he seemed to be philosophically against the idea of the institution, on the other hand, he was a slaveowner who benefitted hugely from it. This characterization will carry over in this fic, except I’m giving our messed-up, problematic lil baby the redemption arc he never got in life. Also his descriptions of Sally are kind of male gaze-y and gross, but…. Historical accuracy? Smh . Writing this, I was torn between being like “THOMAS, STAHP” and “Thomas do u need a hug?”. (it gets better)  
> P.S. I do not think an A-minus is a bad grade. That is Thomas’s (incorrect opinion). You are good enough :)  
> Chapter Warnings: Depression and Anxiety at the same time (it’s as fun as it sounds), dom/sub undertones, implied/referenced emotional abuse, my egregious abuses of punctuation  
> Thanks, as always for reading my absurdly long author’s note. Hope the history bits were interesting.  
> Love y’all,  
>  BookSlut1994

-Chapter 3-

Only The Memories of When You Were Mine

 

**_Winter, 2006_ **

Thomas Jefferson sprawls in the middle of his enormous planter’s bed, letting himself sink into the down mattress topper that Martha had adored and he’d always found too soft, watching listlessly through half-lidded eyes as anemic winter sunlight filters through the gaps in the blinds, casting a watery, grey light over the big, empty space.  Across the room, he can see his alarm clock, its red digital numbers glowing garish and accusatory against the black background.

_2:00 PM_

Just seeing the number triggers a wave of panic that starts in Thomas’s stomach and claws its way up to his chest, choking the life out of him; it _hurts,_ and it’s like one of those dreams he had when he was a kid- where he was being chased and he couldn’t run. It’s the same visceral, physical terror- stupid, embarrassing- utterly illogical. Thomas should go, should get up, get out of bed, move, do somethinganything. There’s nothing stopping him really, except for the fact that he _can’t-_ can’t make himself, can’t breathe around the gaping, Martha-shaped hole in his chest, and can’t make the lead weights that are his limbs obey him; his arms and legs are tangled roots, pulling him down, down, down, tethering his empty shell to the marshmallowy mattress. All Thomas can do is lie there, hate, hate, hating himself, tears welling up and spilling from his eyes like drips from a leaky faucet, silent and never-ending. Anguished, ashamed, and terrified, he presses his slick face against the sheets that _no longer smell like his wife._ He’s too tired to sob- too miserable make himself stop. He could die here, he thinks. _He could die here_ and no one would miss him and no one would care except to mourn _all the **things**_ he couldhaveshouldhave accomplished if he weren’t such a weak, pathetic failure.

_2:07_

_Do you remember Thomas Jefferson? He used to be smart._

The maid enters his room. Lovely Sally- beautiful, awful Sally who looks like a negative copy of his wife- her skin a milky brown to Martha’s porcelain, her drawn- back curls and wide-set eyes bright as copper where his wife’s had been coffee-dark.  Her gaze, when it rests on Thomas, is full of scorn.

_Don’t look at me like that._

She narrows her eyes. “You have a visitor, Mr. Jefferson.”

Thomas grits his teeth, forces down the lump in his throat, and mashes his face into the duvet so he doesn’t have to see how much she hates him. “Tell them to go away,” he mumbles, hating himself for the pitiful waver in his voice- the ever-present threat of tears. He can’t make himself be better-not even in front of people that he-

Sally nods, close-mouthed, copper eyes narrow and unreadable. Martha’s eyes were like that too; blazing with life or nothing, nothing, nothing- black holes. Her anger was annihilating, a cold kind of fury that could break-unmake you, reduce you to less than nothing- a nonentity, a not-person.  Thomas watches- helpless as Sally turns on her heel and stalks out of the room, admires the way her baby blue sweatpants cup that perfect ass, hates himself for doing it- for tainting his wife’s memory by fantasizing about her younger, sexier doppelgänger, hates himself because he’s no good without Martha there- was never _really_ good without her help.

_He wants to fuck her brains out._

When Sally leaves the room, Thomas curls into a ball. He hugs his knees to his chest, hooking his fingers under the neckline of the sweater that used to be Martha’s; that shouldn’t fit him, but does. Because Martha liked her sweaters big and soft, at least two sizes too large, wool caverns big enough to hide in. Because Thomas’s grief is a parasite, sinking its fangs into his very soul, gnawing him up from the inside out. His stomach hurts and his chest hurts, and everything just _hurts._ Thomas couldn’t eat if he wanted to. Thomas is small enough to hide. When the door creaks again, he doesn’t have the energy to make himself move.

“Thought I told Sally to tell you to go ‘way.” He’s whining; he knows it. He can’t seem to make himself stop. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays for the intruder to leave.

_Go away. Go away, goaway, leaverightnowpleasedeargod **don’tseemelikethis**._

The footsteps don’t stop. They move closer, absurdly loud on the hardwood floor, too much, too loud, too close, too everything. Thomas tries to breathe and it is a harsh, ragged sound- closer to a sob than anything. It tears at his throat and he shudders.

The person stops. “You gave me a key.”  James Madison’s voice is low and steady, like thunder in the distance before a summer rainstorm, powerful and soothing all at once- well-worn from years of calming his seven younger siblings when they were hysterical.

“Right…” Thomas’s voice is watery and small, muffled by the thickness of the duvet. He remembers now- on the night before his wedding, he’d proudly passed his friend a gleaming, newly-cut key, _“come over any time.”_ It was meant as a repayment of sorts for frantic college nights spent curled up on James’s twin extra-long, _“I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I just don’t want to be alone.”_ Thomas could never truly _make_ up for all that James had done for him, but at the very least, he could make sure that his bestfriend-best man had a place to go, make sure that he was never as lonely or sad or scared. In all the years that James has had the key to Monticello, he’s never used it- until now.

James perches on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, barely indenting the mattress despite his 6’3 frame.  He bites his lip, looks at his feet as if what he’s about to say pains him.  “Thomas, I’m worried about you.”

“I’mfine.”

 “Are you? Are you, _really?_ ”

Even Thomas knows that his response is too terse, too automatic to be real- almost laughable really as it’s past two pm and he hasn’t gotten out of bed, but still, _still_ the speed with which James dismisses his claim bruises his pride. He deflates, curls up further, if that’s possible. As if James could ever understand the magnitude of his loss- _as if._  

“I’m _fine_ ,” he repeats because he may be sick and sad, but he’s also stubborn and proud and perhaps a little suicidal and if his chest hurts it’s certainly not because his heart feels like it’s breaking in half.  “I don’t need your pity.”

James face looks like it belongs next the dictionary definition of misery. He sighs, and when he finally speaks it’s in the same soft-yet-no-nonsense tone he used to use when one of his six siblings was being intransigent. “Thomas, sit up. Take a look at yourself for one second. Please.” 

Thomas’s heart clenches. He knows what James is asking and he doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to know- to see. He rolls over, flinches, half-expecting a fist in his hair- to be dragged up. It doesn’t come. _Of course it doesn’t; because James isn’t like that._   For a split-second another face dances across his consciousness- pale as the moon, heart-shaped, pretty, espresso-dark curls and eyes he could drown in.  

**_“Look_ ** _at yourself, Thomas.”_

The vision flickers and dies and Thomas’s patience is shot. “I’m fine,” he moans. He hooks his fingers under the collar of his sweater and presses the tips into his throat until it hurts. “I’mfineI’mfine. Goaway.”

_“You’re **not!** ”_ Sounds like James is done too. The other man’s voice is rough-scratchy and raw. Madison hardly ever yells and the sound tears at Thomas’s shredded-up heart in a way he didn’t know was possible. “I called and called and you never picked up, and Sally never answered the door-”

“-she hates me.”

“-I thought you were _dead,”_ James continues. “Do you have _any idea how that feels?”_

Thomas laughs and laughs and laughs, mirthless and hysterical, stomach-hurting; he can’t stop.

James’s eyes widen. He still hasn’t moved from his spot. “I’m sorry. That was-” he splutters, searching for the correct word, his mouth opening and closing uselessly around apologies that won’t be enough.

_Terrible? horrible? Insensitive?_  If Thomas was feeling cruel- feeling like himself, if it had been anyone else who’d said that, he’d skewer them, rhetorically drag them through the dirt until they begged for mercy; but this is James- his best and only friend. He sits up. “I know,”  is all he says. His voice sounds dead even to his ears and he forces a smile to mitigate the effect of it. It feels wrong, and if James’s grimace is anything to go by, it _looks_ wrong too.

_“Thomas…”_ James’s eyes shimmer, but don’t spill over. Madison’s control is incredible- always has been. Slowly, he reaches a hand across the duvet- holds it out and waits patiently for Thomas to come to him. He blinks and the moisture is gone in a minute, like a mirage- a trick of the light. If Thomas hadn’t been there, if Thomas hadn’t _seen it_ \- if Thomas didn’t know James Madison better that he knows his own self, he wouldn’t believe it had existed at all.

Thomas bites his lower lip, worrying the already torn-up skin. He _wants_ to be offended- wants to care that James is treating him like an abused puppy, like something that is hurt, and weak, and broken- because he’s _proud,_ goddamnit, and yes, he feels shattered, but that doesn’t mean he wants to feel that way where anyone can see. Thomas wants to slap James’s hand away- to snarl and say that he’s fine and he doesn’t need help from _anyone_ , but James’s hand is _there_ and Thomas is _so lonely_ and he doesn’t think he’s touched another person in-

He reaches out and _sobs_ when his fingertips touch flesh. James’s hands are warm and calloused and, _and._ He loops his fingers around Thomas’s and pulls him up, towards the mirror.

_“Look._ Thomas, please. _”_

Thomas shudders and forces himself to face the shining glass, blinking dazedly at his miserable reflection. “I, I….”

“Shhh…it’s okay.”

Thomas’s face in the mirror is somewhere just north of emaciated, clouds of dark-brown hair that didn’t exist a month ago, serving only to accentuate his sunken cheeks and too-big eyes. He looks starved-out and miserable; he looks-

“- _not okay,”_ Thomas sobs, shoulders heaving. He tugs at the end of his grown-out hair. “I’m _not_ okay!”

“I know.” James draws Thomas in for a hug, and it’s like he’s eighteen again and terrified because he got an A-minus of his first college test and he can’t tell his parents because then everyone will know that he is _stupid_ and _worthless._ He shudders and buries his face in James’s tee-shirt until the fabric is soaked and all he can do is lie there, boneless and spent.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Shhh..” James soothes, gently smoothing over Thomas’s hair. When Jefferson finally relaxes his shoulders, James extricates himself from the other man’s embrace and slowly draws something out of his pocket.

“What’s this?” Thomas’s voice is small and panicked. It can’t be good- it can’t be-

_When Martha was angry, she used to threaten to serve him with divorce papers…_

James frowns. “They’re law school applications. I’ve already filled mine out.”

Thomas’s eyes widen.

“I’m going to Harvard Law and you’re coming too. Thomas, you’re going to write your own deliverance.”


	4. Yo This Kid Is Insane, Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burr is trying really hard. Hamilton gets his shot, though he doesn't know it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Washington is a bit of a dick in this fic, y’all- a la Alexander Skarsgaard’s character in Good Will Hunting. Minor tw for Burr’s anxiety and classism, internalized on Alex’s part, dickishly externalized on Washington’s. Readers, meet…The Plot! (It only took me 4 chapters to get here). I wrote this instead of sleeping, so forgive me any errors (I find it probable that I may have committed many errors).  
> I use comments to fill the aching void of attention in my life.  
> Love y’all,   
> BookSlut1994!

The lecture hall for George Washington’s class is huge but cramped, the low ceilings and lack of windows making the massive space appear smaller than it is. Aaron tries not to panic as he scans the room for an empty spot, searching the rows of seats for one that’s tucked far enough back for him to hide and close enough to the front that he can avoid being branded a slacker, and comes up empty. He’s not late, he reminds himself- _he’s not late_. He’s six minutes early.  It doesn’t matter- the room is packed. His heart falls into his stomach. _Stupid. Stupid. You’re not in undergrad anymore. This is Harvard Law._ Aaron forces a shuddering breath and it’s loud- so loud, there’s no way his classmates didn’t hear it. They’re probably all laughing at him right now and-  he looks up, glances around again. No one is even paying attention. _Thank god._  That doesn’t solve the problem of where he’s going to sit, though. There’s a flicker of motion in the back of the room and - _oh-_  it’s Lafayette.

The Frenchman is waving his hand, grinning like a prom queen. Aaron breathes a sigh of relief and makes his way up the aisle, muttering apologies when he accidentally brushes against his classmates’ shoulders. He sits down and Lafayette claps him on the back.

“Mon ami!” he exclaims, “I thought you’d never find us.”

“Sorry.” Aaron can feel his face heating up. He flips out the fold-down desk and focuses on arranging his pencils and meticulously color-coded notes.

At the other end of the row, Laurens rolls his eyes, chewing on the eraser of his pencil. The other man looks smaller in the light of day, his light-brown curls washed out and pale under the sickly fluorescent lighting. He hunches into his chair like he’d rather be anywhere but here, burrowing into his oversize flannel and glaring at anyone who dares to speak too loudly in their direction. “I _hate_ mornings,” he moans. “I hate everything.”

“It’s not morning,” Aaron points out.

The look John gives him could kill a man and Aaron deflates. He’s said the wrong thing, _again._ He pastes on a weak smile and vows to talk less. He tries to mean it this time. Next to him, Lafayette giggles. “It’s before two pm and our dear Laurens is… _how you say… hungover?”_

Aaron mutters another apology at the same time that John snarls, “I know you speak English, Lafayette.”

The Frenchman ruffles his friend’s curls, looking at Aaron like he’s a particularly cute but stupid animal at the zoo. “I love him!” he exclaims,” he’s like a Martian- he doesn’t know _anything!”_

“Umm… thank you?” Aaron can feel his face heating up and he’s unsure whether he should feel flattered or offended. He’s leaning towards flattered-his phone has been silent since he left Princeton and he _really needs friends_ , when the room goes dead silent.

“Ladies and Gentlemen… are you ready for Constitutional Law 101?” Every students’ eyes are glued to the front of the classroom, and there he is… George Washington, the living legend himself. Tall, athletic, and handsome even in his middle age, Professor “the General” Washington is easily the most magnificent human being Aaron has ever seen, and Aaron’s parents made a point of hanging around illustrious people. He opens his mouth and Aaron and everyone around him frantically scrambles to capture every word. This- _this_ is what it means to be at Harvard Law.  By the time the class period is over, Aaron’s fingers ache, but his face hurts more from grinning so much. Before the class is dismissed, Washington scribbles a case-study on the board.

“This is a senior-level case,” he begins, “Completely unsuitable for L-1s. My colleagues think I’m utterly insane for even mentioning it to you, but…” he smirks conspiratorially at the class, “I believe that you’re capable.  If anyone can solve this case by the end of the semester, I will be very pleased, and he -or she, will be dully rewarded.”  He drops the chalk he’s holding and the classroom erupts into utter chaos.  On the other side of the aisle, Aaron can see a young man in a purple jacket talking animatedly with his friend.

“That prize is as good as mine!”

“Sure.” Aaron bumps into the friend as he frantically tries to make it to the front of the classroom.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, staring at the floor.

Purple-jacket looks him up and down, full-lips curling into a sneer. “Watch where you’re going, Princess.”

Aaron keeps his head down and prays to god that the appellation does not stick. He reaches the front of the room just as Washington is about to head out the door.

“Professor Washington!”

The man turns around, smiling in a bored fashion. “Mr. Burr…”

“Sir!” The nineteen-year-old shuffles his feet and tries to come up with something eloquent to say; the words catch in his throat, choking him. His eyes water. “Thank you for class today, sir,” he finally squeaks out, “it was very…um…informative.”

“Thank you,” Washington replies, one foot out the door. “Mr. Burr, if you have any more _questions_ , I will be at office hours.”

“Sir.” Aaron looks miserably at his feet and tries to figure out what part of his education has been wrong.

“Well,” Laurens sidles up next to him. “The good part is that it couldn’t have gone worse.” He doesn’t try to comfort Aaron, but he also doesn’t laugh, and the Burr heir isn’t sure, but he thinks this might be Laurens’s version of sympathy. He manages a weak smile, and Lafayette pulls him into a hug, vaulting over the first two rows of seats to get there.

“It will be ok, mon petit.  Tonight, we drink at the Liberty!” Even John smiles.

All roads, it seems, lead to Sam Adams’s bar.

\---------------------------

Alex sighs as he shoves the bucket filthy gray water across the floor, careful to avoid spilling the contents on his holey converse. They may look like shit, but they’re the only shoes he’s got. It’s midnight and he’s not even close to done, his scrubbing having barely made a dent in the scuff-marks that mar Harvard’s illustrious halls. He pauses to lean against the wall- his back _aches_ from his construction job, and he’s twenty, _twenty._ He’s not supposed to feel this damned old.

 _Oh well. No rest for the wicked._ He pushes himself back up and makes to grab his mop when something catches his eye- the chalkboard on the other side of the hall. It beckons him, the deep green face issuing a challenge in gorgeous, looping cursive. It’s exactly like the books Alex has been reading, _exactly like them_. His chest aches. He’s _so hungry-_ for what, he doesn’t know. His fingers itch. Because _it’ll only take a second_ , because _what does he have to lose,_ because _fuck it, he wantsthisneedsthis so much he thinks he might die from the wanting of it_ , Alex picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing.

He’s just adding the finishing punctuation when a voice at the end of the hallway jolts him out of his thoughts- loud, angry, middle-aged, male. He nearly jumps out of his skin, chalk clattering to the floor, and _bolts._

“Hey kid! Kid!”

Alex’s heart is in his throat. His chest hurts. He takes a turn at breakneck speed and doesn’t stop running until he’s clear of the building. When he gets outside, he collapses in an undignified heap on the ground, face red, eyes burning, terrified and inexplicably humiliated. He’s not a criminal- he knows that. _They_ don’t. He buries his head in his hands. He’ll quit, he decides- it’s the only course of action that makes sense. He’s as good as fired, anyway. Harvard never really wanted to hire immigrant scum, and they’ll be even less pleased when they find out he’s been putting his filthy hands all over their hallowed walls. It’s fine. He has his other jobs, he’ll survive. He always has. Alex slinks back to the T, and catches the next ride back to Southie.

\--------

“What do you _mean_ there are no student workers in your department?”

George Washington growls in frustration as he argues with the _morons_ at the school’s janitorial department. Someone, _someone_ solved his case, and as it’s not like the students in his ConLaw class to be modest, it has to be someone else. He’s searched this whole damn school top-to-bottom for the last three days and he’s _not_ about to have his efforts wasted by some uppity manual-laborers in stained overalls.

“Exactly what I said, asshole,” spits out a fifty-something guy in a Patriots hat. His name-tag reads O’Malley, and his pale-blue eyes read: fuck off.

George sighs. He doesn’t want to be dealing with these people, but even he realizes that he may have been letting his frustration get the better of him. It doesn’t do to be a prick to people you’re trying to get help from. He smiles at O’Malley. The man does not smile back.

“Look,” Washington begins, “Have you seen a kid… I don’t know…maybe five-six, wavy, dark-brown hair, skittish as all hell?”

There’s a flicker of recognition on the head janitor’s face. Washington holds his breath. He’s grasping at straws. He prays for a miracle and tells himself that it’s for this mystery boy’s own good; it’s not every day that an illustrious professor appears out of nowhere, and whisks some working-class kid away to academic superstardom. This boy has a gift. It would be a shame- a _crime_ to waste it.

Finally, O’Malley nods. “I know your guy- Hamilton’s the name- but ya won’t find’m here. Lil’ shit quit two days ago- no notice, no nothin’.”

Washington just barely refrains from beating his head against the wall. “Is there any way I could find this _Hamilton?_ Any contact information?”

O’Malley shrugs. “Here’s the info for his PO.”

“P.O?”

“Parole Officer.” The janitor looks at Washington like he’s an idiot, he’s a lawyer after all, he should know. Washington worked with taxes though- defending rich people’s money, not petty criminals. He grimaces.

One of the guys laughs. “This is insane!”

“What’s insane,” Washington snaps, “is what this kid can do.”


End file.
